Chapter Thirty-nine

Greyson

The wailing siren continued as the lights above strobed. Closing my eyes was not a reprieve. The deafening squeal screeched on incessantly. No longer were my hands bound. I was free to move about the small cell. The room was ten feet by ten feet by my estimation and at least fourteen feet high. I told myself that it was larger than the closet Cecilia described.

Gritting my teeth, I held my hands firmly against my ears.

Nothing could stop the penetration of the sound.

It rattled under my skin and deep into my bones.

“Think, Kyle. Fucking think.”

Keeping my mind active was my first priority for survival. I refused to allow the relentless noise to strip me of my cognitive ability. That was the purpose of this particular form of torture. I knew the routine. I’d even used the technique when I had power. I’d watched men lose their minds as they succumbed to the torment. Death was welcomed as a blessing.

Why am I not dead?